


Like a Circle in the Water

by LadyKnightOfHollyrose



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-11-13 02:17:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKnightOfHollyrose/pseuds/LadyKnightOfHollyrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The youngest son of Baron Kirkland is captivated by one of the best soldiers of the lower city. The soldier? Isn't quite sure what to do with the attention. Written for the 30 Days of Writing a Drabble a Day Challenge. Medieval AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur finds it hard to concentrate on his etiquette and deportment lessons when he spots a talented young swordsman down in the courtyard.

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Arthur attempts to draw as little attention to himself as possible; the many layers forced upon him each morning combined with the sticky warmth of a rare heat wave cause him to pluck at his sleeves in distaste, sure that the fabric is all but melding with the skin beneath. Master Geoffrey continues to blather about etiquette and deportment without pause, Arthur’s fidgeting apparently going unnoticed.

His gaze drifts to the widow where he can see the rolling hills, the streets, the bustling _life_ that lies beyond the castle’s walls. The endless hours of lessons he must endure day after day are so that he will one day be ready to maintain these lands and govern the people who live there. Even as the fourth son of a baron, he has no hope of escaping his fate to a life of adventure and glory as his two eldest brothers have. Instead, by virtue of his sharp mind and head for calculations, he wastes away indoors with only Master Geoffrey and his imagination for company

Well, that isn’t entirely true. The third son of the Kirkland household sits at the desk beside him, head resting on one palm and engaged in the futile exercise of attempting to stay awake. Having been subjected to the Master’s selection of the most mind numbing punishments known to man on multiple occasions himself, Arthur mentally wishes him luck. After all, Gawain is the only one of his siblings upon whom he would _not_ wish Master Geoffrey’s wrath

A flash of silver catches the corner of his eye, and Arthur angles his head slightly lower so that he can peer down into the castles courtyard without looking too suspect. It takes a moment to locate the source of his distraction: a sword catching the light as its owner slashes and parries under the sergeant-at-arms’ watchful eye. The blade arches gracefully, slicing through the air as the boy – man? – works diligently through his drills. The intricate steps and controlled movements look almost like a dance, and Arthur can’t help but feel mesmerised by the sight.

The figure comes to a halt with a final flick of the wrist, designed to disarm an opponent. Arthur can almost imagine the beads of sweat running down the side of his face, curling the ends of hair so fair it seems white and leaving dark patches where it soaks into his shirt. Pale cheeks have become flushed through exertion and it is the _fire_ he can see in those crimson eyes that makes Arthur’s breath catch.

These eyes burn into his mind, scorching him in a way the sun can’t hope to replicate.

He’s still staring as the other aims a bow at the sergeant-at-arms; stares as he re-joins his companions beside the well as another comrade steps forward to replicate his performance; stares as he’s clapped on the shoulder and gulping down the proffered water with a grin.

Arthur is quite content to continue gazing down at the courtyard for the remainder of his lessons, but it is not to be; there is a loud thump as Master Geoffrey drops a dusty tome onto his desk. He leaps from his skin, head whipping around in alarm and almost topples from his chair. Beside him, Gawain is biting his lip in apology, but from the small wads of paper decorating the floor between them it seems as though he had tried to catch his attention before the Master had resorted to such drastic measures.

Arthur spends his evening in the armoury, scouring the dirt from chainmail and polishing breast plates while attempting to memorise the exact degree of a bow needed for each member of the gentry. His hands begin to slow as he thinks of dancing blades and gleaming red eyes. When Gawain finds him several hours later, he is curled around the last breast plate, rag still in hand, a smile curling his lips in slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gawain - Wales  
> Master Geoffrey - Named after Geoffrey of Monmouth
> 
> Huge thanks to WhiteWings9 and RevoltionJack for their patient beta-ing <3


	2. Accusations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur finally gets the chance to have a word with Gilbert… Gilbert just wants to get a snack before he has guard duty.

He had ignored it at first; a slight prickling at the back of his neck as he trained with the other recruits, the sensation of eyes tracking his movements as he went about his day. If he’d started to catch glimpses of the youngest of Baron Kirkland’s children when the other had previously made himself scarce it could only be some kind of coincidence.

Or so he had thought.

Gilbert is forced to revaluate his original assessment of the situation when he finds himself face to face with the young lord in question a few weeks after he first senses his observer. It is early evening, and most days by now he’s already back at the forge pushing Alte Fritz away from his newest creation long enough to have some stew and bread for supper. Today is different; Gilbert is scheduled to have his first taste of guard duty, and it is when he is returning from the stables after informing his brother Ludwig of this that he runs into Arthur Kirkland.

He’s seen the boy about from a distance, of course. The fourth son of Baron Kirkland, destined to inherit the land for his quick wit, is not only known to the people of the fief as the eventual successor. The quiet war waged by the second and fourth sons of the Kirkland house is legendary amongst the castle’s servants; the tales detailing the subtle but thorough revenge orchestrated against Sir Sean Kirkland before the knight had relocated to the capitol in the King’s service are retold in hushed tones to the new recruits to the castle each year, and Gilbert remembers huffing with disbelief at what he is told. “Surely,” he had insisted, “someone must have intervened before things could become so out of hand.” For if the barbed comments in public and the rough brawls in private had been stopped, surely there would have been no need for retaliation.

The older boys had smiled wryly at him and informed him that nobles were taught that they must stand alone; that they must take everything and say nothing of it. Arthur had never spoken to anyone of the fighting, and while there was impossible to hide anything from the castle’s servants, he had been able to weave stories to explain away details that would cause his educators or parents’ suspicion. His silver tongue, Gilbert had been told, had also been of great use when reporting his brother’s absence at dinner for the three nights after he had exacted his brand of justice.

Gilbert had often wondered at how much _truth_ was left in the tale, when it had been retold so often by so many different people. Now, as he feels that piercing gaze turned on him, he finds himself believing every word.

“M’lord,” he murmurs in acknowledgement, spine folding into a bow.

Arthur eyes him for a moment in silence, as though his expression will give him the answer to his internal debate, before giving a nod in return.

He had thought that to be the end of the conversation (if it could even be called that) but Arthur proves him wrong. While the Kirklands are known to treat their staff and people fairly well, it is still rare to see one of them interacting with commoners; Gilbert has no reason to think this should play out any differently, so when Arthur continues to survey him quietly instead of walking away he conceals a frown of confusion. His plan to beg a snack from his friend working in the kitchens before his shift is becoming less of an option the more time he allows to pass.

When no reaction is forthcoming from the noble, Gilbert shifts his weight from one foot to the other and asks, “Can I help you, m’lord?” He’s beginning to feel a little impatient – he has things to do, after all – but he also knows he can’t hurry the other along. If he comes off as rude there will be consequences, and although he is more than willing to take responsibility for any of his actions he won’t allow them to affect Alte Fritz or his brother.

That, and also the fact that he would very much continue to learn swordplay and help defend his home.

“What is your name?”

He can’t stop the practiced drawl from leaving his lips, “Gilbert Weillschmidt of the lower town.” He wonders for a moment if that is too impertinent, but the slight quirk of young Kirkland’s mouth is assurance enough that he’s in the clear.

“Gilbert Weillschmidt of the lower town…” It almost sounds like a champion’s title, the way it rolls off Arthur’s eloquent tongue. “Your swordsmanship; it is unmatched by the peers you train with.”

The way that Arthur speaks this as a statement of fact, completely certain of his words, cements something in Gilbert’s mind; it has him voicing his thoughts before they are even fully formed and he can’t keep the suspicion from slipping into his tone. “…It was you watching our training sessions?”

Arthur lifts his shoulder in half a shrug, apparently unbothered. “It’s far more entertaining than listening to Master Geoffrey’s lessons, I must say.”

Gilbert cracks a smile at that; he has only had the misfortune of running into Master Geoffrey on one occasion. He had not been particularly receptive to the idea of finding seven young men loitering near the banquet hall in hopes of catching the eye of one of the serving girls. If his lessons are anywhere near as tiresome as his lectures, Gilbert pities the third and fourth Kirkland children, even given their wealth. Still, if he does not start walking soon, he will have to patrol on an empty stomach. “I thank you for the praise, m’lord.” He’d bask in it a little more had he the time. “I hope to do credit to those who taught me in service of your family. Speaking of which, I must report for evening guard duty; by your leave..?”

His hopes for a quick dismissal are dashed when he spots an odd spark in Arthur’s eye. “Just a moment more of your time,” the blond says smoothly, and Gilbert has no choice but to stay put. “I wanted to ask if you would consider a practice duel or two. My brother and I learn together, so he is the only one I have had the chance to fight.” He wrinkles his nose. “We can both easily predict what the other is about to do.”

Gilbert’s brows rise. Whatever his expectations had been for the direction of this conversation, it certainly hadn’t been _this_. “Why ask me?”

“I have seen you fight.” Arthur’s tone suggests that he shouldn’t _need_ any other reason but this, but he continues for Gilbert’s benefit regardless. “You enjoy swordplay enough to want to practice in your own time, and your sense of pride is high enough that you would not let me win simply because of my position.” A pause. “I may also be able to learn from you.”

Remembering the stories about the many fights Arthur had had with his brother before he had retaliated, Gilbert’s eyes narrow. “And if I, a commoner, injure you during practice? My family would be put out of work before you had the chance to do anything to prevent it.”

Arthur just gives him a measuring look, before shrugging again. “We would be using blunted practice swords, how much damage could you do? But I don’t want to keep you; have some time to think about it and then give me your response.” It’s a clear dismissal, and Gilbert takes it before the other can change his mind. He aims a hurried bow in the young noble’s direction before heading in the direction of the kitchens. If he’s lucky, he’ll have enough time to plead his case to Elizaveta for a bread roll before he sprints to his first night of guard duty.

He’ll think on Arthur Kirkland’s request tomorrow, on a full stomach and sufficient sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sean - Ireland
> 
> Again, big thanks to the lovely RevolutionJack for beta-ing and putting up with my whining as I write, and to WhiteWings9 for her edits as well!


	3. Restless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur resolves to wait ten days before approaching Gilbert for an answer to his request; it doesn’t take long for him to become impatient for the verdict.

Ten days.

Arthur wills himself to wait for ten days before approaching Gilbert for an answer, and never before has he known time to pass so slowly.

The request had been made almost on a whim when he had found himself before the other, thinking only to find a way to make it possible to interact with the fair haired swordsman. Gilbert is interesting, talented and so very different to anyone else he has encountered. Master Geoffrey’s lectures have given him the opportunity to observe Gilbert from a distance, though rather than sating his curiosity he merely feels more intrigued.

While he had thought of the excuse to meet – the practice duels – on the spot, it is certainly true that he stands to gain a lot from the arrangement.

He can only wonder at how attractive the idea will be to Gilbert, however.

Arthur resolves to leave Gilbert alone for ten days, but finds himself going mad with impatience by day two. Staying out of Master Geoffrey’s notice becomes increasingly difficult as he fiddles with his stationary and taps his foot against the leg of his desk. His mother scolds him when she notices him chewing his lip in thought, a habit that had been drummed out of him years ago. Gawain frowns at him from time to time and pauses as though to ask if he’s all right, before thinking better of it and turning away with furrowed brows; he knows Arthur well enough to be aware of the fact that Arthur will only speak his mind on his own terms.

Their cousin from the east arrives, visiting with his family for a few days and providing Arthur with a distraction of sorts. Being the youngest in his family has meant that Arthur is charged with Peter’s wellbeing whenever the two are in the same general vicinity. Arthur likes to think of this special form of torture as an exercise in futility designed to build character. It is the only way he is able to get through such visits with how wilful Peter can often be.

Two and a half days pass as he chases the little terror around the castle, and by the time his cousin has left Arthur is feeling utterly exhausted. Even so, the thought that Gilbert may say ‘no’ feels like a constant niggling presence at the back of his mind.

Seven days after approaching Gilbert with his idea, Arthur decides that he’s had enough of waiting.

Gawain notes the sudden shift in Arthur’s expression over breakfast with an internal sigh of relief. He takes a moment to register the spark of determination in his brother’s wide green eyes, and to feel a small shred of pity for the one who will be facing his brother’s relentless tenacity. Turning his attention back to his scrambled eggs, Gawain has no idea how right he is.

Gilbert won’t know what hit him.

—

One hand already gripping the hilt of the sward strapped to his waist, Gilbert tenses for a moment, straining his ears. Tonight is the first night he is manning a section of the castle’s walls for guard duty without the supervision of a more experienced soldier, and while the quiet thud he thinks he heard is probably nothing to cause alarm, he is one to err on the side of caution and there is nothing worse than being caught unawares.

He doesn’t hear the sound a second time, so he allows his stance to relax a little. He lets his gaze sweep across the view before him, absently noting that what he is seeing is the opposite side of town to his residence, the forge. It is a peaceful sight, the normally bustling marketplace barren of both wares and people in a way that would never occur without the cover of night – though it would be more accurate to say it is now very early morning. The one ale house that can be seen from his perch had quieted just an hour ago after a small brawl had broken out; he had been too far removed to be able to determine the cause of the disturbance, but it was loud enough to draw the attention of the guards from their post nearby. The issue had been resolved quickly by the owner of the establishment before the guards had even been able to arrive at the scene. Gilbert is certain from experience that Berwald Oxenstierna’s expression alone would be enough to scare the fright out of the bravest of knights.

Gilbert’s musings are suddenly cut short as the vicinity is plunged into darkness, and he pushes himself off the wall with a flint in hand to re-light the lantern closest to him.

He completes the task quickly, turning to trot back to his position when the soft glow being cast on the stone grows steady. It is then that he hears the sound of a few soft, shuffling footsteps from the direction of the stairwell. It only lasts a couple of seconds but it is enough to put Gilbert on his guard as he creeps towards the archway with his sword drawn.

In retrospect, it is a very, _very_ good thing that he had lit the lantern when he had.

A figure slides from the shadows, swift and surefooted, and Gilbert only has a moment to swing up his sword in his defence. The blade stops just short of his attacker’s throat as Gilbert recognises the messy mop of blond hair and striking green eyes.

Instead of backing off, Arthur merely grins at him and leans forward, forcing Gilbert to lean away in order to keep his sword from nicking the noble’s skin. They stare at each other over the blade for a moment in silence, before Gilbert lets out a long, slow breath and hisses, “What the hell are _you_ doing here?”

His tone is anything but respectful, but his heart is still racing from the adrenaline of an unexpected encounter and he’s very conscious of the fact that he had almost _beheaded_ the _Baron’s son_. He’s still grumbling to himself as Arthur sways back out of his personal space, sheathing his sword while muttering that little princelings should be in bed at this hour. He’s well aware that they are only a year apart in age, but he feels as though _he_ is the one who has just had a recent brush with death and feeling far less charitable than he might otherwise.

Arthur is apparently feeling generous; he keeps his temper in check and stares Gilbert down without flinching. “I think we both know why we’re here, Weillschmidt.”

Gilbert drags a hand through his hair; Arthur is right, of course, and he knows Arthur’s reason for sneaking up here at the crack of dawn. He should have expected something like this, really, and Gilbert’s already kicking himself for his lack of foresight.

“Have you come to a decision?”

He’s been deliberating over Arthur’s proposal ever since hearing it; on the one hand, there were many risks. A commoner striking a noble, for whatever reason, always leads to trouble. And while Gilbert tends to court trouble with no qualms, he won’t allow it to follow him home, as it is prone to where nobility is concerned.

On the other hand, the prospect of being able to test his mettle against a noble is intriguing. Will there be a difference in technique? Gilbert has heard that Knights do not dabble in bare handed combat, while it is almost instinctive to those who live in the lower town and have grown accustomed to guarding their purses on every outing. There is also the matter of Arthur of the Kirkland house – the young lord who doesn’t seem to care about the difference in class and has let so much of Gilbert’s insubordination slide without batting an eyelid.

He has to admit, the kid is interesting.

“All right,” he sighs, a little resignation seeping into his voice. If he were to be completely honest with himself, he’d admit that his decision had mostly been made the day after Arthur had first spoken to him. “A practice bout to test the waters doesn’t sound unreasonable.” The slight smile Arthur aims at him at that makes him roll his eyes. “Now don’t you have somewhere to be? I still have the rest of my shift to go.”

Arthur shrugs a shoulder, one hand disappearing into the cloak draped over his shoulders to shield him from the morning chill to re-emerge producing a slab of hard cheese. Gilbert eyes it suspiciously for a moment, before accepting it.

Arthur stays for the remaining hour of his shift, content to lean silently against the wall as Gilbert concentrates on spotting any untoward movement outside the castle.

Gilbert finds that he doesn’t particularly mind the company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much for regular updates! The chapters do seem to be getting longer though. I’m still not sure if that’s a good thing or not XD
> 
> Also, you may or may not have noticed that I finally have a title for this AU! =D ‘A Circle in the Water’ is taken from a quote from Shakespeare’s King Henry VI:
> 
> "Glory is like a circle in the water,  
> Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself,  
> Till by broad spreading it disperse to nought."
> 
> Also want to say a big thank you to WhiteWings9 for help with editing!


	4. Snowflake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he had thought to glide through this unruffled and unscathed, he now knows better. Gilbert is certainly not likely to humour him just because of his high birth, after all.

By the third time that Gilbert deftly hooks his blade around Arthur’s and tugs the sword out of his grasp, Arthur is gritting his teeth in frustration. Gilbert lets the tip of his blade caress Arthur’s neck for another moment before withdrawing.

Arthur briefly entertains the notion of taking a small break to calm his temper before continuing – as he has often been instructed to during his own formal training – but when he fails to pick up his fallen weapon, Gilbert quirks an eyebrow at him in impatience as he lets one hand rest squarely on his hip.

Arthur does as he is bid, grumbling under his breath all the while. Gilbert just laughs at him. “D’you think your opponent will be kind enough to wait for you to calm down before striking? He’s more likely to anger you further before slicing you open.”

The difference in the level of their skills had become apparent fairly early on, and so Gilbert had immediately set about correcting Arthur’s stance and adjusting the younger’s grip. For all of Gilbert’s reservations, he has proven to be a strict taskmaster; he demands discipline and precision of his pupil, and is completely willing to goad and harass Arthur until he is completely satisfied with what he sees. The moment they step into their practice area of choice, Arthur ceases to be the baron’s son just as Gilbert is no longer a common born soldier in training. It will be a while before they can be equals, even here; Arthur has a lot of catching up to do after all.

If he had thought to glide through this unruffled and unscathed, he now knows better. Gilbert is certainly not likely to humour him just because of his high birth, after all.

As it turns out, Arthur is actually better with a sword than he gives himself credit for. As his footwork improves, the fog of frustration that had been hindering him gives way to a feeling of such clarity that now, after endless amounts of practice, he can sometimes catch Gilbert off guard by finding holes in the other’s defence that neither of them had even realised were present.

Their bouts can vary in time, sometimes lasting only a few short minutes before the winner is apparent. At other times their constant exchange of blows will last the entirety of the session, the only indicator of the time passing being their growling stomachs.

Arthur lets out a small grunt of exertion as he parries against the next onslaught of Gilbert’s attack, his breath coming out in shallow pants as he attempts to get his bearings. Gilbert is relentless, driving Arthur backwards with each swing of the sword. He moves without needing to spare a thought for his destination, his instinct guiding him through the drills that Arthur had first seen Gilbert performing.

Arthur freezes for a moment, eyes going wide.

Gilbert swings his sword again, and Arthur’s arm goes numb from the impact of it striking his own blade while he was off guard. He makes as though to trap Gilbert’s sword in the way the older boy had done to him so many times since starting their training, and it is as Gilbert Gilbert tugs his sword free that Arthur strikes, quick as a viper.

His blade traces a low arc before sliding up and lightly tapping Gilbert’s unprotected side.

There are a few minutes of silence, as they each catch their breath, and Arthur can see the slow grin curling onto Gilbert’s lips. “Well fought, kid; _very_ well fought.”

Arthur huffs, not bothering to get irritated by the nickname that he’s long grown used to. “Better watch your back, Weillschmidt, or you’ll have a rival on your hands instead of a student.”

“ _Right_ ,” Gilbert snorts sounding thoroughly unconvinced, a hand reaching out to thoroughly ruffle Arthur’s hair. Then he’s moving across the room to put away his practice sword, using his shirt to mop up some of the sweat dripping down his forehead as he goes. “Don’t be letting one small victory get to your head; you’re a long way from consistently beating _me_.”

He smirks at Arthur over his shoulder, hand rising in a lazy wave, before he saunters out of the room to head home for the night. Arthur stares after him for a moment and then follows him through the door with a roll of his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering about the prompt for today, I took it to be ‘special snowflake’ and how Gilbert certainly isn’t going to treat Arthur like one while they’re training.
> 
> Sorry if there are any mistakes, today’s chapter hasn’t been beta’d by anyone; feel free to point them out to me if you spot anything!


	5. Haze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After weeks of pestering, Arthur is delighted when Gilbert finally agrees to take him to an ale house.

After weeks of pestering, Arthur is delighted when Gilbert finally agrees to take him to an ale house. He hasn’t a clue what exactly had prompted Gilbert’s change of heart, but he certainly isn’t in a mind to question his good fortune.  
   
He makes a conscious effort to appear natural the following day, remembering to scowl into his breakfast to avoid suspicion. A grin threatens to spill across his features all day and it is a relief when he is finally dismissed from dinner, allowing him to retire to his room.  
   
He retrieves the satchel he had received from Gilbert the previous evening and spreads the contents over his bed. He looks at the simple clothing for a moment, absently thinking that Gilbert must have leant him his own clothing after all, before running his fingers over the coarse material. He shrugs into the ensemble and has to dig out a belt to ensure he won’t be tripping over his feet for the whole evening; he doesn’t need to give Gilbert more reasons to poke fun at him.  
   
Finally, he fastens his cloak at his neck and catches his reflection in the mirror. Arthur frowns at the image: he is swallowed by the swathes of fabric making him look too young. It is only when he grimaces at his the image that he looks any older.

A wry smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he slips, silent as a shadow, into the hallway. Gilbert had once asked, in that blunt way of his, how he could possibly frown so much when he had so many resources at his supposed disposal.

He’s fairly certain that given his small wiry build, Gilbert will agree that his more often than not sarcastic temperament and sober countenance will be an asset today.

It takes a few minutes to navigate his way through the darkened passages he’d lost himself in as a child, re-emerging outside the castles walls precisely where planned. He quickly trots over to where can see Gilbert leaning casually against a wall a few feet away.

Gilbert gives him a once over and nods his approval while trying to tuck away the small smile that creeps onto his face at the sight Arthur makes. Mercifully, he stays silent, choosing instead to sling an arm around Arthur’s shoulders and steering him in the direction of the path that winds down to town.

They amble through the markets on foot, Gilbert’s arm acting like an anchor to keep from losing Arthur to the tide of people flooding the square. Gilbert snickers at Arthur’s wide eyes as he struggles to take everything in, saying he may as well be the country lad he’s to pretend he is this evening. Arthur ignores him with a now practiced ease and welcomes the attack on his senses; seeing, smelling, touching, tasting, hearing, _feeling_ the atmosphere. The experience is _entirely_ different from when on horseback.

His mind is still reeling as the two of them meander through quieter streets. Arthur resolves to pester Gilbert into bringing him down to the town more often – preferably on a regular basis. Though as the building of their destination comes into view, he admits to himself that whether or not his friend agrees may possibly depend on the outcome of tonight’s outing.

Gilbert throws open the tavern’s doors without ceremony, striding inside with confidence as he drags Arthur in behind him.

The place looks bigger inside than it had done from outside, and Arthur has a vague recollection of Gilbert mentioning that there are rooms available to stay in upstairs for paying customers. The low lighting makes Arthur think of muted laughter and shared secrets, though the only sinister presence that he can detect presently is the severe looking man standing behind the bar. Gilbert tilts his head to the man as he walks by; Arthur feels that he’s intimidating enough to deserve a shallow bow at least, but is pulled away before he can do much more than nod.

There is a jovial shout for Gilbert from one corner of the room, and Gilbert promptly changes direction as he heads towards the sound. Arthur winces at the sharp tug on his wrist and stumbles after the older boy, attempting to peer around the taller figure to catch sight of Gilbert’s much spoken of friends.

He eyes the table from which the call had originated with a little trepidation. Being one of the younger sons of a noble house outside of the intrigue of the King’s Court has meant that Arthur’s interactions with other children of noble birth have been few and far between; of those he _did_ meet, few were openly antagonistic but the grudging respect and wary truces between them showed none of the amity spoken of in the stories he’d found in their library. His fledgling friendship with Gilbert is not conventional in the least, but has given him a first taste of what friendship can truly be.

Even if he is unable to befriend Gilbert’s comrades, he certainly wants to make a good impression; the last thing he wants is for Gilbert to feel ashamed to be his friend – for Gilbert to regret befriending him at all.

One of the people seated at the booth slides out from behind the table to throw an arm around one of Gilbert’s shoulders, thumping the other on the back with a loud, bright laugh. He towers over both of the new arrivals, blue eyes appraising Arthur from over Gilbert’s shoulder.

Gilbert’s grip tightens on his wrist for a moment in reassurance before allowing his fingers to uncurl so that he can return the enthusiastic embrace.

“So,” the tall stranger says, smiling at Arthur. “This must be the Artie we’ve been hearing so much about recently.” He holds out a hand and Arthur takes it, his grip firm, He’s startled when the formal handshake he is expecting does not happen and he is instead tugged forward where the man stoops slightly to get a closer look at his face. “Well I’ll be,” he breathes, looking thoroughly amused. “Looks like those brows really _are_ that big up close.”

Arthur can feel two spots of colour burning onto his cheeks – Gilbert’s friend has recognised him, it seems – as Gilbert rolls his eyes and cuffs the man’s head while he can still reach, hissing “Mathias; _discretion_!”

Mathias just booms out another laugh, ruffling Gilbert’s hair so hard that it resembles a bird’s nest by the time he’s done. Gilbert is still muttering to himself murderously when a quiet voice rings clearly from behind Mathias.

“I don’t think Mathias knows the meaning of the word, Gil.” Arthur shifts so that he can inspect the owner of this new voice; intelligent eyes and a knowing, slightly exasperated smile are set into a small face. He has a softer look about him, counteracting the sharp edges and angles that make up Gilbert and Mathias. “And _neither_ of you seem to possess any sense of self preservation. No _wonder_ everyone treats me like I’m your keeper.” That said, he turns his attention back to Arthur. “I’m Brandt, by the way. Why don’t you sit down?”

This is how he finds himself firmly wedged between Brandt and Gilbert, sipping on the lemonade as that has been restricted to.

“There is no way I’m going to be able to sneak you back into the castle if you’re drunk,” Gilbert had grumbled before agreeing to bring Arthur along at all. “It’s lemonade for you, or nothing.”

Not that Arthur lets that stop him from stealing a sip from Gilbert’s tankard while the elder is distracted. Mathias catches him the act an hour or so after they arrive, but instead of bringing it to Gilbert’s attention as Arthur had feared, he just throws him a conspiratorial wink before proceeding to draw Gilbert’s attention away even more frequently.

Arthur feels himself relax as the evening wears on; it is in part due to the alcohol flowing through his veins, but the credit is equally, if not more, deserved by Gilbert’s friends.

He listens attentively to tales of their exploits around town, each growing more outrageous with every interjection as Mathias and Gilbert interrupt each other. Brandt occasionally cuts into the conversation with fond amusement when something said is just a little too extravagant and instead provides Arthur with the unembellished truth.

 The first time that this happens, Arthur can’t supress the snort of laughter that leaves him. There is a moment of silence at the table as Arthur clams up, not wanting to offend his new friends. Then Mathias breaks into laughter, Brandt following shortly after. The only one _not_ laughing is Gilbert, who is busy vehemently denying ever being sent home black and blue by one of the girls who works in the castle’s kitchen.

Soon, he’s chuckling along with Brandt as Mathias and Gilbert start to flirt shamelessly with the barmaids, and even eggs them both on as they continue to be rejected.

Arthur’s luck is apparently better than theirs; after Gilbert catches Arthur taking a rather hearty gulp of ale from his tankard a girl with a ribbon in her hair and warm green eyes sets a fresh glass of lemonade in front of him, saying that it is on the house. He accepts it dubiously, but with thanks. She gives him an affectionate pat on the cheek before rounding on Gilbert and Mathias with reprove. “If you two were half this sweet, you might actually be getting somewhere.”

She bustles away, clearing the table of empty glasses as she goes. Gilbert catches sight of the embarrassed flush creeping up Arthur’s neck and snickers. The three older boys tease him mercilessly for the rest of the evening, and although Arthur retaliates in his usual fashion of barbed remarks and cutting dry humour he finds that he’s still enjoying himself – that this is the most fun he has had for a very long time.

—

Despite the distinct lack of activity with how empty the streets have become, the walk back up to the castle is considerably slower than the journey down to the town had been only a few hours ago. Gilbert mutters to himself for the entire trip, though the words lack any bite. Arthur glances up blearily through his lashes and catches a small smile on his friend’s face. It stays there until Gilbert notices his gaze, when he raises a brow at Arthur and asks, “And just what are _you_ smiling so happily about?”

He isn’t aware that he _is_ smiling; the fact that he makes no move to school his expression at all once he _is_ aware has Gilbert blinking at him for a moment, before he’s rolling his eyes. “We’re going to need to build up your tolerance if this is what a little ale does to you. I thought you said you’d had wine before…”

Arthur allows himself to be lead through back streets, his grip on Gilbert’s hand a little slack as he nods along without the words really registering. His mind is still revelling in the wealth of memories he’s acquired this evening – the new people he has met and befriended, the new places he’s seen, the new feelings he’s experienced. It’s this, he thinks absently, rather than the alcohol that he’s consumed that is making him feel so dazed and causing him to run into Gilbert’s back every so often when he’s not paying attention.

It takes until the next time he crashes into his friend’s back for Arthur to fully recognise what Gilbert has said to him, and when he does finally understand his eyes grow to be as wide as saucers as he stares down at their joined hands.

“We’re going to build up my tolerance?”

Gilbert throws him an amused look over his shoulder before tugging Arthur forward again by the hand. “What, you want to be drinking lemonade for the rest of your life? Cause unless we take it slowly that’s all you’re going to be allowed from now on; no more hand outs from Mathias.”

“You mean I can come with you again?”

“You going to let me keep you away?”

Gilbert informs him that the grin that _then_ spreads across his face is positively frightening. Arthur doesn’t care in the slightest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mathias - Denmark  
> Brandt - Margraviate of Brandenburg
> 
> Apologies for the delay getting this posted - I’m hoping the length makes up for this somewhat? :3 I’m also really sleepy at the minute, so apologies if there are any mistakes! (If you spot any, please feel free to point them out, as always~)
> 
> The next part may also take a little longer than usual to post as I have a few things I need to read up on before I can write it; I’ll try not to take too long though!


	6. Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Gilbert starts finding excuses to leave their training early, Arthur can't help but worry.

He doesn’t notice that there is anything amiss a to begin with.

When Gilbert suggests that Arthur should broaden his horizons by facing a different opponent, Arthur agrees without much thought. There has been a marked improvement in Arthur’s progress, and although he has yet to consistently best Gilbert in their bouts, they are often able to predict what the other’s next strike will be before it can land.

Mathias is, he soon discovers, far quicker than he has any right to be for his size. Still, Arthur is smaller which enables him to duck under a lot of the broad arcs Mathias’ sword makes as he strikes. Arthur has to keep moving to avoid becoming a target, but that also makes it difficult to land a hit, himself.

The first time he manages to get close enough to strike, Arthur feels himself swell with pride. Gilbert lets out a whoop from where he is perched, before getting up to prod Mathias in the side and ribbing him for getting hit at all.

Mathias takes it all in stride, the only punishment that he retaliates with being a severe hair ruffle for each of them.

Soon after, Gilbert is excusing himself with the excuse of having a few errands to run before he is scheduled for a night patrol of the town.

It doesn’t hit home until a week later when he’s glaring daggers at the dullest book on the importance of ethics that he has ever had the displeasure of encountering. Over the last month, Gilbert has been slipping away with worrying regularity, leaving earlier and earlier until he’s only actively participating in their training once or twice a week.

He slams the book shut with a satisfyingly loud crack that sends a lightly dozing Gawain to his feet.

He’s determined to get answers tonight one way or another – and he will not let _anyone_ stop him.

\--

Reality has a way of foiling even the most meticulously laid plans.

When Arthur arrives at their designated training area, the small tirade he had been planning through the afternoon slips from his mind as he catches sight of the spectacle his friends are making of themselves as they roughhouse.

Of course, it doesn’t seem to last particularly long with Brandt there to suddenly sweep the feet from under the pair. He steps out of the tangle of limbs from the floor with a straight face and enough dignity to make up for Gilbert and Mathias and claps Arthur on the shoulder in greeting.

It all goes promptly to hell from there.

Brandt may be of slight build, but the speed and accuracy with which he strikes has Arthur teetering within moments as they spar. The nickname he’s been given by his peers is one that is well earned, and Arthur knows that he will not be besting this opponent any time soon.

It’s not until he is back in his room and changing for bed that he realises that Gilbert must have slipped away during one of their bouts – it had taken all of Arthur’s concentration just to stay upright for most of the evening, but now that he has the time to think he cannot help but worry.

It takes a long time for sleep to come that night as he wonders morosely how long it will take for the other to tire of his company as well.

\--

“For goodness’ sake, be careful boy!”

Gilbert does not really react to the reprimand, continuing to wrestle his boots onto his feet and juggling the package in his hands while attempting to remain upright.

Alte Fritz shakes his head in fond exasperation, placing a steadying hand on Gilbert’s shoulder. “You’re going to make me think I’ve raised you to be a barbarian, after all of these years.”

“It’s taken you this long to realise?” He gets a soft swat to the head for his impertinence, though it only makes his grin grow wider. Gilbert climbs to his feet, straightening his clothes and hefting his package. “Don’t worry so much – it’s not going to get damaged on the walk to the _castle_.”

“It’s _you_ that I’m worried about.” The sigh follows him through the door, and Gilbert rolls his eyes – he’s not _that_ bad – before setting off in earnest.

He finds Brandt and Mathias waiting for him by the gates and they share a conspiratorial smile before setting off to find Arthur. They do not need to search for very long, finding him sheltered by a tree in a corner of the courtyard, an unopened book in his lap as he gazes off to a side in thought.

Gilbert can’t help the smirk that settles across his face at the way Arthur starts when Mathias clears his throat. He can see the confusion growing in the boy’s eyes, but Gilbert speaks before the furrow between those thick brows can get any deeper.

“It has come to our attention,” he begins imperiously, stepping forward to block Arthur’s view of the package carefully held in Mathias’ grasp, “that in the next few days a certain princeling we know will be turning fourteen years old, and the most he’ll have to show for it is a ball he doesn’t even want to go to.”

The small, concerned frown that had started to curl down Arthur’s lip seems to be smoothing out, the wariness leaving his features… still, the completely befuddled look remains.

Brandt, kind soul that he is, takes pity on him and nudges Mathias forward with his elbow, smiling. “Happy birthday, Arthur. We did _want_ to give you the whole of your present today before the preparations for the ball take all of your time, but as it is still cooling Gilbert will have to try and deliver it to you tomorrow.”

Arthur is still looking at them in mild incomprehension, so Gilbert crouches down next to the boy, grabbing his wrist and dragging it forward until his fingers curl around the covering separating him from his gift.

This seems to break him from his trance. Arthur pulls the package open and his jaw drops at what he finds inside.

“And now you know where Gil kept disappearing to. Since you were wondering.” Brandt elbows Mathias again for his ‘helpful’ input, and Gilbert shifts restlessly from one foot to the other as Arthur attempts to reacquire the power of speech. “He had to start the scabbard again, you know, which is why it’s going to be a day late.

Gilbert glares back at the big oaf, who just raises his hands as if in surrender while grinning helplessly. Then he turns his attention back to Arthur, suddenly feeling unsure of himself. “It’s probably very simple in comparisons to the swords your older brothers have, but the length and balance should be perfect for you since me and Alte Fritz made it. And you’ve been ready for a sword of your own for long enough, if that stiff of an instructor you have would jus-”

It’s a very good thing that Mathias still has a firm grip on the sword and its wrappings when Arthur throws himself at Gilbert, squeezing the air out of his friend’s lungs. Gilbert pats him awkwardly from where his arms have been pinned while Brandt hides a smile behind his hand – Gilbert must look quite the picture himself, blinking in surprise as he is. Because although it’s clear that Arthur has comfortably assimilated himself into their small band of friends, he is still by far the least tactile of them all. Something to do with keeping his dignity apparently, but Gilbert has his suspicions.

Still as Arthur gives his ribs one last crushing squeeze while mumbling a quick but heartfelt ‘thank you’ into his shoulder, he can’t help but think that the hours spent toiling in the forge, covered head to toe in sweat and soot, have been completely worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have guessed, the prompt 'Flame' is from the fire that the sword would have been made with; I had planned to have a scene of Gilbert actually making the sword but I couldn't fit it in properly.
> 
> Thank you, WhiteWings9, as always for beta-ing~


	7. Formal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Gilbert had asked him over for dinner with his family in that casual way that he has, Arthur had barely managed to repress the undignified squeak that had almost left his mouth.

Arthur has had to meet dignitaries from the capitol, has been trained from birth to know what is acceptable to discuss with whom and when to keep mum. He has had to attend countless balls against his will where he must entertain maidens of the court that he has little care for and even less interest in. He had – once, when he had been very young – had the honour of meeting the crown prince.

As much as he has loathed every class, Arthur is practiced in the proper etiquette befitting his position and has had much opportunity to put these dubious (in his humble opinion) skills to the test.

None of this does anything for the abject terror that blindsides him as he trundles down the path to where he is meeting Brandt.

Brandt must see the unease in his features as he approaches; the older boy looks to be somewhere between amusement and sympathy. A small smile of reassurance steals across his lips as Arthur comes to a halt beside him, and Arthur can’t help but duck his head slightly in an attempt not to fidget.

“Honestly, Arthur, you needn’t fret so much. Alte Fritz is nowhere near as intimidating as _Berwald_ is.”

He’s heard much the same from Gilbert and Mathias, but this piece of information isn’t nearly as comforting as it perhaps should be.

Mathias’ uncle Berwald, who runs the ale house that the four of them frequent, towers over most of his patrons and can calm an impending brawl with but a single quelling look. His broad build coupled with the seemingly permanent furrow in his brow has made the co-owner of the establishment’s assertion that the man is actually a gentle soul _very_ hard to believe.

When Gilbert had asked him over for dinner with his family in that casual way that he has (“Alte Fritz has been asking after you since your birthday and I can prove to you that my cooking is as amazing as I say”) Arthur had barely managed to repress the undignified squeak that had almost left his mouth.

Arthur isn’t daunted by the prospect of meeting Alte Fritz in the same way that Berwald daunts him. From everything that he has heard thus far, the smith is the best at his trade for leagues and one of the kindest men one could hope to meet. It’s clear from the way that Gilbert speaks of him that he is loved as a father, respected as a teacher and means a great deal to his friend.

Alte Fritz is important to Gilbert and the prospect of not gaining his approval – of unwittingly offending him, or the little brother that his friend so clearly adores – has Arthur more terrified than he has ever felt before in his life.

Brandt gives Arthur’s shoulder a small squeeze before leading him down the path and away from the castle. “He’s not going to want to let you leave by the time you’re done…” The way Brandt says it is almost a rueful sigh.

Arthur can’t help but hope that he’s right.

—

Arthur runs a distracted hand through his hair and attempts to straighten out a non-existent wrinkle from his shirt, before finally steeling himself and knocking on the door before him.

Brandt had left him with an exasperated shake of the head only moments before, and once he is alone he’s almost wishing for a little ale to calm his nerves.

When the door opens, Arthur is greeted by the sight of a solemn looking boy with clear blue eyes and neatly combed blond hair. His stare is a little unnerving at first, but after assessing Arthur for a minute he gives a small nod and steps aside to let him in.

“Lutz, was it him?”

Arthur follows the boy through the narrow hallway towards Gilbert’s voice and into a room that combines as a drawing room, dining room and kitchen. Gilbert himself is hovering over a large pot, hands on his hips, and the sight so far removed from what Arthur is used to seeing from his friend that he snorts in amusement before he can stop himself. This seems to catch his attention, and he turns around just as his younger brother answers with a prim, “Yes, brother, it was.”

Abandoning the pots for a time, Gilbert strides across the room and ruffles the boy’s hair as he turns to face Arthur. “I see you’ve met my brother then; Arthur, this is Ludwig.”

Ludwig bears the treatment with a look of practiced long suffering, rolling his eyes as he twists away from his brother’s fingers. Arthur hesitantly offers him a hand to shake, and after a moment Ludwig takes it. His grasp is firm but not overpowering, and there is a slight smile in his eyes even though his features remain neutral. It makes some of the tension in Arthur’s shoulders ease and he manages a smile in return.

Gilbert beams at them both before shooing his brother away to call Alte Fritz in from the forge. “Honestly,” he says as he wanders back over to his pots, giving the contents each a quick stir before carrying them across to the table one by one. “Trying to get him out of the forge is almost impossible, it’s like-”

“Attempting to force you to part with your sword?” Arthur interrupts wryly.

Gilbert gives a snort of amusement, prodding Arthur in the side as he passes by. Arthur waits until he has safely deposited the loaf of bread in his hands before retaliating with a swift kick in the shins.

By the time Ludwig and Alte Fritz walk into the kitchen’s threshold the two of them are leaning against each other to stay upright as they laugh.

—

By the time everyone is seated at the table, it is clear to Ludwig that Arthur is feeling much more at ease than he had when he’d first arrived.

Gilbert tends to have that effect on people.

Dinner is a fairly quiet affair in comparison to when Mathias and Brandt are over, but Ludwig finds himself preferring the sharp sting of Arthur’s wit to the boisterous chortling that he has become accustomed to.

Not that this is particularly unexpected, at least not to Ludwig.

Ludwig has been a stable hand at the castle since he was seven years old, and has seen many nobles come and go over the years. Alte Fritz has always told them that a good way to judge a person is to see how they treat their inferiors – or their animals.

It is a lesson that Ludwig has always taken to heart.

Ludwig doesn’t know a lot about Arthur’s interactions with the serving folk of the castle. He has always been under the impression that the Baron’s fourth son doesn’t speak a lot if he has the option but is polite when the situation arises. No news is good news after all, and while Arthur doesn’t have Gawain’s reputation for kindness, he doesn’t have the whispered notoriety that Sean has earned himself.

Still, he’s seen the older boy with the horses often enough.

Arthur does not yet have his own horse, having lived the majority of his life in the caste and rarely travelling out of the Kirkland land, but when the opportunity presents itself Arthur is one of the few nobles who insist on caring for his steed after the journey has ended. Most just leave the work to the stable hands, saying that it is what the servants are paid for.

Arthur likes to stay behind, whispering to the horse as he brushes out the tangles in its mane. He drops by when he thinks he can get away from his tutors long enough, and never without a pocket full of sugar cubes.

Out of all of the Baron’s children, Ludwig has always liked the youngest two the most. But he hadn’t understood why his elder brother had _befriended_ one of them until today.

Arthur seems to stumble into conversation, all knees and elbows until the moment he catches his balance – it’s only then that his brows start to furrow as he contemplates a response, only then that he lets his lip quirk up in agreement or his nose wrinkle in disbelief. Ludwig can certainly identify with that initial feeling of displacement; it’s exactly what he himself experiences when he runs into Feliciano on the castle’s grounds while working, straw sticking out of his hair and streaks of dirt crusting on his cheeks.

…He hopes, in vain, that Elizaveta will spare him the humiliation of Gilbert’s teasing by keeping the instance of this that she had witnessed the previous to herself.

But. Moving on.

The current topic of conversation seems to be sword craft, which is hardly a surprise in present company. Alte Fritz has Arthur’s rapt attention as he describes one of the more ornate swords he has been commissioned to make in his time, and when Gilbert misses his usual cue in the story to start rambling about his own involvement in the process – being a nuisance and generally getting underfoot – Ludwig glances curiously over to his brother.

Gilbert is cleaning the last dregs of stew from his bowl with the last scraps of his bread roll, one of his rarer, quiet smiles gracing his features as Arthur asks a particularly interesting (if the thoughtful hum Alte Fritz makes is any indication) question.

It’s the same smile he usually has as Alte Fritz ruffles his hair with pride. It’s the same one he wears when ruffling _Ludwig’s_ hair with affection. It’s the smile that lights his face when Mathias and Brandt visit unexpectedly, just because they can. It’s the smile that had crept across his lips when Arthur ‘s eyes had warmed in pleasure when trying his first mouthful of stew.

As far as Ludwig is concerned, that’s more than enough of a reason to welcome Arthur into their circle.

And if the spark in Alte Fritz’ eye is anything to go by, he couldn’t agree more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This instalment is completely unbeta’d, since I’ve literally just finished writing/typing it up! If there are any mistakes/typos, please feel free to point them out~


	8. Companion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They don’t realise what is happening until it’s too late. 
> 
> Gilbert, Brandt and Mathias see action as part of the Castle Guard for the first time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case anyone missed the added tag/warning: this chapter contains character death.

“Arthur, Gawain.”

Arthur looks up, turning his attention away from a hushed conversation with his brother (it’s never a good idea to speak ill of the tutors within their esteemed mother’s earshot, a lesson that the two youngest brothers have learned through observation of their siblings) to his father.

Up until this point, supper had been proceeding as per usual with the very occasional interruption when a message that could not wait needed to be conveyed to Baron Kirkland. The Baron would nod, taking note of the message and issuing directions to the messenger, and then continue to dine with his family.

Not tonight, however.

Arthur watches the messenger scurry out of the hall and lets his own brow furrow slightly as he studies his father. There’s a slight tightness at the corner of his eyes that Arthur can’t help but think bodes ill.

“I have just received word of unrest in one of the outer lying villages under our protection and a possible threat to the town.” His features are grim as he continues, “you will each need to learn how to deal with such matters when you succeed me, and so you will both observe as I place the appropriate measures.”

Both boys nod, muttering their assent before excusing themselves from the table and hurrying after their father.

Arthur sits through the meeting with the Commander of the Castle Guard and his first sergeant-at-arms avidly as Gawain fidgets uncomfortably on his right.

Bandits have been raiding the village in question, cutting down any and all who dare to defy them. The resident who had left to inform the Baron had been slain on the road, and it had only been chance that the message had been conveyed at all. It was said that the bandits had been heard speculating on the possibility of preying upon those at the edge of town before moving on.

Arthur sees Gawain’s trembling fingers fist in the fabric of his breeches in anger, and can feel the ache in his jaw as it clenches with the same sentiment.

It stays that way as the five of them enter the courtyard where the guards have assembled, and Arthur’s eyes reflexively search out his friends. Mathias is over on the left with the soldiers who are to ride to the village with supplies and the offer of protection. He finds Brandt and Gilbert with the group who are to patrol the outskirts of the town, vigilant for bandits should they approach.

As the commander issues orders, Arthur can’t help but wish that he could be down there beside them; that he could watch their backs and be of _real_ use to his people.

As it is, he prays.

He prays for their safe return, and for justice to prevail.

—

They don’t realise what is happening until it’s too late.

Gilbert hears a scream from about a block away from where he is patrolling, and after confirming that there is another soldier close by to cover his post, he races towards the sound.

He feels dread crawling up his throat when he arrives.

A man lies on the floor bleeding from a knife wound to the thigh, the woman who had presumably screamed kneeling besides him attempting to stem the blood.

“The children! There are children in the house they went to – please _hurry_!”

Gilbert’s away again before she has finished speaking, sprinting in the direction that she indicates.

He reaches the house in question at the same time as Brandt; they share a look of horror as they realise just _whose_ house they are stood in front of.

They enter silently, through the back door, creeping carefully into the kitchen. It seems to be completely untouched, and it is only after a second inspection of the room that Gilbert notices that one pot left on the side of the counter is still steaming. Brandt nudges him in the side, tilting his head in the direction of a cupboard next to the pantry. The door is slightly ajar, and if he holds his breath, he can hear a near silent sniffle.

Lips pulled taut in a grimace, Gilbert nods. Brandt kneels, using one hand to nudge the door fully open as his other hand grasps the hilt of his sword.

There’s a tiny squeak from within, green eyes glaring out of the cupboard’s depths. Ludwig’s little friend Feliciano has his head buried in his twin’s chest; Lovino clutches the younger’s hand while biting his lip. Both flinch in unison at the sound of a crash from further inside the house.

Gilbert grits his teeth, biting back a curse.

More sounds of clattering, closer than before, and after a moment of silent communication Brandt is whispering soothing words to the boys and closing the cupboard door all the way. Brandt will protect them. Meanwhile, Gilbert edges out of the room.

It doesn’t take him long to find the source of disruption.

The man has his back to the door, but Gilbert can see broad shoulders under the curtain of greasy hair that hangs from his head. Gilbert inches forward as the bandit rummages through a box – he manages to cross half of the room before being betrayed by the sound of crinkling paper. He frowns down at the sheaf under his boot for half a moment before springing into action.

Without the need for silence, Gilbert leaps the remaining distance in a single bound, his sword a flash of silver as it swipes around to hover at the bandit’s throat. An elbow is thrown back at his collarbone with force – Gilbert dives back to avoid the blow but is not quite quick enough. It clips his jaw instead, making his eyes water. The other man takes the opportunity to strike at his stomach; Gilbert dances out of the way so that it glances off his shoulder instead.

Gilbert regains his footing as his arm goes numb, catching sight of the dagger that has appeared in his opponent’s hand in time to swing away from a jab at his throat. He rolls straight into aiming at the bandit’s leg, abruptly changing direction when the bandit ducks to parry. Instead, he lands a blow to the man’s head with the flat of his sword.

The bandit crashes to the floor, scarred face first. Gilbert kicks the dagger away before reaching for the rope at his hip to secure the criminal.

It’s when he has crouched to retrieve the dagger that he hears signs of further conflict back in the kitchen. There’s a loud clatter, a grunt and pained screaming.

Gilbert has burst through the door before the grating sound has died. The scene before him stops his heart.

Water all over the floor. A man writhing in pain in the midst of it, skin red and blotchy. An overturned pot rolling into an open cupboard door. Brandt, clutching his gut as Feliciano rips off his small apron for Lovino to press to the laceration there. At the rate that the apron is staining, he doesn’t have a lot of time.

Gilbert hesitates for a split second.

“Gilbert,” Brandt croaks. “Secure him first.” He must see the way that Gilbert’s eyes narrow, because he continues with, “he’s the leader.” A weak cough that leaves Gilbert seething. “You can’t kill him, he’ll know if there are any more of them.”

Gilbert curses. He then strides across the room to the man curling in on himself, inspecting the various cuts on his person unsympathetically. He gives the man a savage kick to the gut for good measure before knocking him out and binding him with the rope that a trembling Feliciano hands him.

Then, he rushes to his friend’s side as he had wanted upon entering the small kitchen.

—

Arthur and Gawain keep vigil as news comes and goes from their father’s office, taking turns to eavesdrop on any tidings brought about the situation at hand.

They both get caught by servants several times through the night, but none have the heart to turn them away or to report their wakefulness in the face of their obvious concern.

It’s at an hour before daybreak that the news comes – another two of the bandits have been captured (bringing the total captured so far to seven); two of their guards had died protecting the children of the house. The leader of the bandits has been apprehended for questioning thanks to the sacrifice of a soldier named Brandt Morgenstern-

Arthur doesn’t hear anymore through the roaring in his ears. He stays long enough to hear that Gilbert has been sent home before tearing through the mostly deserted castle to go down to the town.

He barely registers rushing past his brother, doesn’t bother with being discreet as he sneaks out. He doesn’t take in the town as he usually would, doesn’t stop to catch his breath until he reaches his destination.

Gilbert is sat slumped on the doorstep to his house, his head cradled in his hands. He peers through his bangs long enough to dimly acknowledge Arthur’s presence before turning his attention back to the ground. Arthur sinks down next to him, wavering for a moment before shifting so that their shoulders touch.

The town is eerily silent in comparison to any other time Arthur has ventured out, almost as though it is echoing the dullness in Gilbert’s usually fiery gaze.

They sit in silence for a whole. Arthur doesn’t feel like he could speak anyway, considering the size of the lump lodged firmly in his throat. His eyes sting, and if the redness standing out against his pale complexion is anything to go by, so are Gilbert’s.

Gilbert lets out a hitching breath before sitting up. His arms slide down to hang limply at his sides. Arthur takes the one closest to him in his hand. After a moment of stillness Gilbert grips back, his hold painfully tight.

“I can’t even kill the bastard who did it,” Gilbert bites out, his whole frame shaking in grief and anger and pain. “He killed Brandt and tried to kill Feli and Lovi _and I can’t even_ -”

A tear rolls down his cheek, and Arthur can feel his own eyes begin to water as well.

They stay on Gilbert’s doorstep like this, hands locked tightly together, until Alte Fritz finds them there a few hours later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this instalment is completely unbeta’d so if there are any mistakes/typos, please feel free to point them out~
> 
> I hope no one wants to kill me for how this went - it was kind of the plan from the beginning to mirror Brandenburg’s merging with Prussia.


	9. Move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the announcement is made, Gilbert is the first to volunteer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interlude

A total of ten bandits had been rounded up the night that Brandt had died, six of whom had been found due to information gained from the capture of their leader.

Now it is time for the men to answer for their crimes in the court of justice; for that to occur, they must be escorted to the capitol without incident to appear before Lord Magistrate for trial.

When the announcement is made, Gilbert is the first to volunteer.

Neither Ludwig nor Alte Fritz are surprised when he tells them, and he is thankful for the support they offer even through their obvious concern. Arthur only nods grimly at the news as though he had expected no less. They haven’t spoken of the morning they had spent together on the threshold of his home, silent in their grief; Gilbert intends to keep it that way though he will never forget.

It had given him the strength to relay the tragedy to his family without breaking and had kept his resolve strong when Arthur had had to return to the castle to avoid getting into any more trouble than he was already sure to have earned for disappearing at such a time.

It had enabled him to hold Mathias back when he had returned from his post in the village to find out had held him through the rage, and finally through the grief.

Gilbert can see the way it almost physically pains Mathias to be staying behind; if not for the responsibilities he has to his family, he would most certainly have been right behind Gilbert when volunteering. The journey to the capitol of the kingdom is not short, however, and Mathias cannot afford to be away from them for such a length of time.

As the time to depart draws near, the two of them find themselves back in the courtyard that they often use for drills. The ranks that are to escort the bandits have assembled.

He listens to the instructions given attentively, his face set in grim determination. When dismissed, he turns to find Mathias leaning against a wall nearby. They clasp hands for a moment, and then Mathias pulls his shorter friend into a quick hug. The sharp thump Gilbert feels jar his shoulder brings a small smile to his face.

When he glances up, the action is almost involuntary. Sure enough, Arthur is framed by one of the windows of the castle. Gilbert gives a small wave. Arthur lifts his own hand to return the greeting but starts in surprise before he can complete the gesture.

Arthur ducks his head and hurries away out of sight. Gilbert heard from Ludwig (who had heard from Feliciano) that both of the Baron’s sons had been reprimanded for being out so late on the night of the raids, but Arthur in particular had been sentenced to confinement to the castle until his father decided otherwise for his vanishing act.

According to the castle’s serving staff, Arthur’s unapologetic shrug and lack of explanation had only aggravated his parents further. While Gawain had been able to mitigate some of the damage done with some quick thinking, Arthur can no longer come and go as he pleases.

In the stables, it’s Ludwig who is shoving the reigns of a horse into his grasp. He knows that he doesn’t need to check the tack; his little brother is the best of the castle’s stable boys after all. Still, he looks over the saddle and bridle under Ludwig’s anxious gaze before swinging himself straight into the saddle without pause. Grinning down at Ludwig’s look of delight at a job well done (and his brother’s seal of approval), Gilbert leans down to ruffle his little brother’s hair one last time, then follows his fellow soldiers out of the stables.

As they approach the edge of town Gilbert looks back at the castle; it will be quite some time before he next sees it, and he can’t help but wonder how much will change before his return.

—

Arthur remembers a time when having to sit beside his father as he conducted Petty Court had been the cruellest possible form of torture to exist. He and Gawain had been particularly vocal when expressing their extreme dislike of having to participate and Arthur guesses that it is for this very reason that his father has incorporated his attendance to be part of his varied list of punishments.

Arthur hides a smile behind his hand. The mornings that he now spends sat at his father’s right hand are endlessly fascinating – the problems that their people put forth are diverse, and Arthur finds himself relishing the challenge presented by solving them. His time with Gilbert, Mathias and Brandt has given him a unique perspective on city life; the discussions he has had with Alte Fritz give him scope that the other nobles seem to lack, and the suggestions he makes are met with delight by the city dwellers and pride from his father.

Arthur suspects that his father is well aware of the way this aspect of his punishment has become a source of enjoyment for him, but apparently the Baron sees this as a testament to the maturity he has gained. His insightful solutions endear him to the common folk and earns him a permanent place by his father’s side as he addresses his people’s grievances.

Word of Arthur’s regular appearances at Petty Court spreads throughout town. Arthur listens to each grievance brought to his attention seriously, and the news of his fair and well thought out responses brings more folk out of the woodwork. One morning he finds himself opposite a familiar face – it’s the barmaid with the ribbon in her hair from the ale house who often slips him extra lemonade.

He can see the spark of recognition in her gaze, but she does not betray any surprise as she speaks to them, calm and confident. It is as she is striding away and the next person in line steps forward that Arthur allows himself to wonder; will this cause her to treat him differently the next time they meet?

It isn’t a question that he has ever really needed to explore before – at first, this is because the only people with whom he regularly associated had been nobles who knew his station, whose opinion had never really mattered to him.

Now, of course, things are different.

He can only hope that revealing this part of himself – his lineage, his _family_ – will not taint her views of the ‘Artie’ she has come to know… though is will not consider giving up his position for her – or anyone else’s – approval.

Just as Gilbert and Mathias (and Brandt) do their part to protect their home, so too will Arthur. He realises that there are some things that only _he_ can do; years of dealing with Sean, listening to the on-going squabbles in the capitol and seeing what the good and bad side of humanity has to offer has taught Arthur one thing:

Ultimately, it is the people with power that have the most influence. If the fact that he has been born to a Baron of the realm will enable Arthur to protect his friends and home, he will use it.

If there is one thing that Arthur has learned from his friends, it is to use what you are born with to your advantage – to use _everything_ at your disposal to protect what is most precious to you.

And Arthur intends to do just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this instalment is completely unbeta’d so if there are any mistakes/typos, please feel free to point them out! This is a little bit of an interlude as duty calls for the two of them and the boys separate for a while. If this feels a little choppy (which I think it does) it’s probably because a chunk of the middle was written while I was on the plane to Rome ^^’


End file.
